


Behind Closed Doors

by downtheroadandupthehill, ryssabeth



Series: Glory Days [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barely Legal but not underaged, High School AU, M/M, Teacher/Student Relations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras hopes his door is closed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Closed Doors

Enjolras has never felt a mouth go pliant under his quite so quickly. He’s never had fingers knotted into his hair like this, never had teeth quite so bent on swelling his lips, or a tongue so eager to map the grooves of his mouth. 

( _Oh no_.)

Grantaire has, somehow, managed to crowd Enjolras on his own desk, fitting between his thighs, cradled there comfortably even as he pushes at Enjolras’ blazer. He drops his hands away from Grantaire’s shoulders to let it fall behind him, piling on the desk in a pool of cloth, even as the only, _tiny_ , rational piece of him wonders if the door to the classroom is closed. (That little piece of him isn’t big enough to explain how bad an idea this is, not yet.) 

Enjolras’ own fingers find their way into Grantaire’s curls, pulling on them insistently, his nails scraping along the young man’s scalp. Feeling him shiver beneath the ministrations of his fingertips.

And it doesn’t _feel_ wrong, not necessarily, with Grantaire’s dark stubble scratching along his own, smoother face, and _fucking Christ_ _how does a high school kid learn to do that with his tongue_?

Pressed together like this, he can feel Grantaire hard against his thigh. Enjolras shifts to rub against it, just the slightest, and he ends up swallowing a breathless, desperate sound, breathing it in and miming it with a low rumble of his own. 

It is this sound, perhaps, that snaps him out of this — pulls him away from Grantaire’s mouth with a gasp, even as he licks the spit off of his lips, even as the aching between his legs comes to the forefront of his mind. It’s this sound that provokes him to hold Grantaire at arms’ length, feeling the heaving motions of the boy’s chest in his shoulders.

(And Enjolras can’t look at him, not really. Because if he does, Grantaire’s mouth will be red and wet and perfect to capture again. His cheeks will be flushed pink, his eyes glazed over with something dark.

Enjolras doesn’t have that kind of self-control.

Even though he should.)

“You,” Enjolras huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and looking pointedly at the wall behind Grantaire, “you are dismissed, free to go.”

( _Get out_ would sound too harsh.

It would sound like a lie.

_Jesus Christ._ )

He listens to the sound of Grantaire’s breathing as he releases him entirely, because he’s certain that if he keeps his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders any longer that he will end up dragging the boy back into his arms. Grantaire isn’t moving, and Enjolras braces for a caustic remark, but Grantaire for once, seems lost for words, and he supposes that’s at least marginally better than a cry of _help my teacher is molesting me_. He feels, rather than sees, the young man lean forward until his forehead is resting on Enjolras’s shoulder, until his breathing steadies. Enjolras keeps staring at the wall, careful not to touch Grantaire again.

(His fingers itch to slip themselves into his student’s belt loops, pull their hips flush together and—

_No_ , he tells his brain. _Fuck, no._ )

Once his breathing and pulse slows to a normal rate, Grantare lifts his head from his shoulders, and gives a low chuckle that Enjolras can feel on his collarbone, and no one should be able to make a _laugh_ sound so sinful. Grantaire takes a few steps back, grabs his sweatshirt and his messenger bag from his desk.

“Best detention ever,” he murmurs slyly, and winks at Enjolras on his way out the door (which _thank God_ , had been closed).

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Enjolras says aloud to the empty room, and buries his face in his hands.

…..

Grantaire practically skips out into the parking lot, even though he’s pretty sure he has died and gone to some sort of heaven. Or maybe he hit his head and had an astounding dream. He should be feeling more sexually frustrated, he knows, but the sheer sense of maniacal glee is far too overwhelming. His first instinct, of all things, is to text Courfeyrac and Eponine, but halfway through typing out _OMFG YOU WILL NEVER FUCKING BELIEVE WHAT_ —he stops, and is tempted to throw his phone out of the car window for one crazy second.

( _You can’t tell anyone, you idiot. He would lose his job_. 

He mentally facepalms, taps the backspace button quickly.)

Types instead: _Detention was blah._

( _Do I even type like that?_ He wonders, the situation still humming through his body, buzzing in his veins. _I don’t even type like that._ )

**Courfeyrac:** yeah blah my ass are you shitting me

**Eponine:** who even says blah anymore

He curls around the feelings in his stomach, hot and real and _alive_ , pressing his forehead against the stop of his steering wheel, hiding a grin from anyone who looks, his arms wrapped around himself, to keep everything inside of him.

(He snickers to himself, the sensations bubbling out of his throat because — _ha_ , Enjolras isn’t near as aloof as he seems, probably hasn’t ever been.

And _that_ just made things interesting.

_As if they were boring before._ )

Grantaire starts the car only after the shaking in his hands stops, the euphoria fading out with every beat of his heart (though he can still feel Enjolras’ tongue in his mouth, mapping out the curves of his teeth, his hands on his shoulders, on his hips, in his hair — ). A glance at the clock tells him he can make it home before his parents do if he punches it now.

He doesn’t _tear_ out of the parking lot, but he almost does, and he whips into the street to get home trying to keep his face schooled — smooth and unperturbed, belying the flush that still feels like it’s simmering underneath his cheeks. 

He pulls the car into his driveway, making it through the door, grabbing a few beers from the fridge and and getting halfway up the stairs before he hears another motor coming in (and he thanks his excellent foresight that he left the parking lot when he did — that he left the parking lot, that Enjolras had stopped him that — and he smiles again, finishing the short trot up the stairs before shutting himself away in his room).

The keys hitting a table downstairs means that his dad is home, which is fine. (He’d made it to his bedroom, a safe space, his only safe space, the neutral ground in a warzone.) 

He kicks off his trainers in the corner and collapses in his unmade bed, head and torso hanging upside off of its edge. His phone vibrates again in his pocket, and it’s probably something from Eponine or Courfeyrac or both of them, hounding him with more questions about his abruptly-ended detention session. He ignores it, as he unzips his jeans and wriggles them down to his knees—the bottles of beer he nicked from the fridge sitting forgotten on his dresser. 

It’s some awkward fumbling, but he heaves himself up so he’s lying on his bed properly, and _oh there it is_ , the bottle of lube shoved underneath his pillow from the last time he’d used it, except this time is going to be so much _better_ now that he has something tangible to think about and he’s been at least half-hard the whole drive home.

Grantaire thinks about Enjolras _not_ stopping them, grinding their hips together and his teacher reaching warm hands up inside his shirt, fingers grazing against bare sides and ribs and pausing to run his thumbs over his nipples more than once—

(He’s too hot now, in his shirt, and hurriedly undoes the buttons and throws it to the end of the bed.)

Maybe he would use his teeth and tongue next, and Grantaire wouldn’t even be able to stand anymore—Enjolras would move to get the upper hand then, and push Grantaire down until he’s kneeling on the dirty tiled floor, and they’re in such a rush—

(His hand is moving rapidly now, on his slicked-up cock, and he slows down for a span of ten seconds, because he _wants to enjoy this damn it_.)

In his mind, Enjolras is pulling at his own khakis, now, tugging his erection free from boxer shorts until Grantaire begins to tease it with the tip of his tongue—but Enjolras is impatient, of course he is, because they could get caught at any moment and he buries his hands in Grantaire’s hair and pulls _hard_ until he’s making him suck him off properly, while Grantaire palms at own cock roughly through his jeans and—

(Grantaire comes with a quiet groan, comes all over his stomach, and he lies there for some minutes, just basking in probably the best self-induced orgasm he’s ever had in his life.

Because he had the best fantasy material to work with, basically ever.

_And what in the hell are they going to do in class on Monday?)_


End file.
